


In a moment, you will cut off my head, and you want me to forgive you? Are you kidding me or what? Shame on you!

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Witcher (Books) [14]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Book: Pani Jeziora | The Lady of the Lake, Corporal Punishment, Execution, Flogging, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fill, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:10:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Dandelion's pardon in Toussaint is not so freely given.Whumptober Day 31: Torture
Relationships: Anna Henrietta | Anarietta/Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher (Books) [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1624276
Comments: 31
Kudos: 186
Collections: Whumptober 2020, Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to base this off Dandelion’s ‘execution’ in Lady of the Lake. If you’re unfamiliar, the story is just that Geralt went to save Ciri while Dandelion stayed in Toussaint (where he was sleeping with Duchess Anna Henrietta). When Geralt and Ciri returned it was just in time to see Dandelion being led to the scaffold to be executed for cheating on the Duchess. He was pardoned just before his execution, but instead I’m having him be whipped. 
> 
> * * *
> 
> [Witcher Kinkmeme Prompt Fill](https://witcherkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/429.html?thread=52909)
> 
> Jaskier is whipped/flogged in public. Geralt takes care of him afterwards.
> 
> I really don't care why he is flogged. As punishment for something he did? Took the blame so it wouldn't happen to someone else? By someone who wanted to get to Geralt who figured that hurting the bard will be more effective than trying to hurt Geralt himself?
> 
> Bonus points for:  
> \- Geralt trying to save Jaskier before it happens but being restrained (by magic or some other means idm).  
> \- Geralt being forced to watch.  
> \- If Geralt watched, Geralt having nightmares about it afterward. He tries to hide it from Jaskier (he is the one who was hurt and needs comfort after all), but Jaskier finds out and comforts him, too.  
> \- Jaskier being more traumatized by the fact that people watched than the pain.

“I think today is a holiday,” Ciri said, nodding with her head towards the square where the crowd was heading. “Or a fair…” She almost sounded hopeful, perhaps wishing they could stop and enjoy the sights.

Geralt took a quick look, surveying the scene and the rowdiness of the crowds. It wasn’t right. “That’s not a fair.”

“Ah…” Ciri stood up in her stirrups and looked around. “So it’s…”

“An execution,” he confirmed. “The most popular post-war entertainment. What are the usual reasons, Ciri?”

“For desertion, treason, cowardice before the enemy,” she recited fluently. “And for economic crimes.” It’s something that would have been drilled into her by tutors, back when she was still a princess before everything went to shit.

“Supplying the army with moldy biscuits,” said the witcher with a shrug. “During the war, an enterprising merchant can easily get into trouble.”

“This does not look like the execution of a huckster,” Ciri pulled on Kelpie’s reins, submerging herself in the middle of the crowd, “Look, the scaffolding is covered with cloth and the executioner has a new, clean hood. He is executing someone important, perhaps a noble. So it could be cowardice in the face of the enemy…”

“Toussaint,” Geralt shook his head, “did not have an army that faced the enemy. No, Ciri, I guess this has to do with the economy. The condemned is probably guilty of some scam in a wine shop and damaged the foundation for the local economy. Let’s go, Ciri. We don’t need to watch this spectacle.”

“How do you expect me to move?”

Geralt looked back and swore. He discovered that they could not even turn around, people clogged the streets behind them. The crowd carried them like a river, but stopped in front of a solid wall of halberds standing around the gallows.

“Here they come!” Someone shouted and the crowd surged like a wave, picking up the cry. “Here they come!”

The pounding of hooves and the rattle of a cart were fully covered by the buzz of the crowd, which sounded like the hum of bumblebees. So they were caught completely by surprise by the appearance of a cart from an alley, drawn by two horses. On the cart, trying to maintain his balance with difficulty was-

“Dandelion…” Ciri groaned.

Geralt suddenly felt ill. Very ill.

“It’s Dandelion,” Ciri said uneasily. “It’s him.”

”It cannot be Dandelion.” No, Dandelion was safe in the Duchess’ palace, probably sipping wine and eating sweets. He had no idea of what Geralt had gone through, and, given the poet’s timid and cowardly personality, it was best that the details remain shrouded from him. It couldn’t be Dandelion, and if he kept telling himself that, perhaps it would be true.

“It’s him,” she said again. “Geralt, we have to do something.”

“What,” he asked bitterly. “Tell me what?” It seemed fitting, after all, that destiny wasn’t finished taking everything from Geralt. It had taken the rest of his Hansa - Cahir, Milva, Regis, and even young Angouleme - of course, Dandelion would be taken as well. At least his death would be quick and painless, coming from a new axe and a well-rested executioner.

The guard driving the cart treated Dandelion fairly, with surprising civility, without brutality, even deferentially, as much as they could afford. At the foot of the steps to the gallows, they untied his hands. The poet nonchalantly scratched his ass and without hesitation began to climb the steps.

One of the steps creaked suddenly and began to sag. Dandelion barely managed to keep his balance.

“Damn!” He exclaimed. “This needs to be fixed! You’ll end up killing someone with these stairs! That would be a disaster!”

Ciri groaned and any hope Geralt had of convincing himself that the man on the scaffold wasn’t his friend faded away.

Once Dandelion reached the gallows, two of the executioner's henchmen in leather vests grabbed him. The only relief was that he didn’t seem to have been harmed in prison, his eyes still bright as ever, his clothes neat. Someone had even let him curl his blond hair in tongs.

The executioner, a hulk with arms as wide as the bastions of a castle, watched the condemned through the slits cut in his hood. Nearby stood a man in rich, though mournful black clothing. His face was no less mournful.

“Citizens of Beauclair and people from the surrounding countryside,” he read in a troubled voice from parchment. “Notice is hereby given that Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, aka Dandelion…”

“Pankratz what?” Ciri asked in a whisper. Geralt waved away the question.

“…according to the Supreme Court ruling of this County has been found guilty of all crimes, offenses, and misdeed of which he was accused, insulting Her Majesty, treason of the state and dishonoring the establishment of the nobility through perjury, libel, and slander, also for dissipation and indecency, furthermore, obscenity and whoredom. The Tribunal had decided that Viscount Julian et cetera, et cetera, shall receive the following punishment – First, mortification of his coat of arms, a thick black line through his shield. Second, confiscation of all his property, both movable and immovable, including lands, forests, castles, and palaces…”

“Castles and palaces?” Said the astonished witcher. “What?”

Dandelion snickered, making it blatantly clear what he thought of the judicial decree.

“Third, the maximum penalty… our Ladyship Anna Henrietta, Duchess of Toussaint and Castilian of Beauclair, has kindly switched the penalty for the above crimes, namely being dragged by horses and dismemberment, by substituting it for decapitation by the ax. Let justice be done!”

From the crowd came a few incoherent cries. Women standing in the first row pretended to weep and lament. Adults lifted children in their arms or put them on their shoulders, that even the smallest child would not miss the up-coming spectacle. The executioner’s assistants rolled a stump into the center of the scaffold covered with cloth.

At the foot of the scaffold, four ragged urchins held out a scarf to collect the blood in. There was a great demand for this type of souvenir, and good money could be earned.

“Geralt,” Ciri said in a low voice. “We have to so do something…”

He did not answer, feeling somewhat numb and hollow inside, too exhausted to move although not in body.

“I wish to speak to the people,” Dandelion said proudly.

“Keep it short, Viscount.”

The poet walked to the edge of the scaffold and raised his arms. The crowd began to murmur and grew still.

“Hey, folks,” Dandelion called. “What’s new? How are you?”

“Well,” someone from the crowd said after a moment.

“I’m glad,” nodded the poet. “In that case, we can begin.”

“Master Executioner,” the bailiff said pathetically. “Do your duty!”

“The executioner approached, and according to ancient custom, knelt and bowed his hooded head to the condemned.

“Forgive me, my good man,” he said gloomily.

“I?” Dandelion said, surprised. “You?” Geralt almost wanted to roll his eyes.

“Mhm.”

Geralt almost wanted to roll his eyes as Dandelion replied, “Not for anything in the world.”

“Huh?”

“I will not forgive you for anything in the world. Why should I? Hear that, joker! In a moment, you will cut off my head, and you want me to forgive you? Are you kidding me or what? Shame on you! In such a sad moment.”

“But sir,” said the executioner. “This is the custom… It is your last duty in the world… The condemned should forgive his executioner. Good lord, forgive me, please…”

“No.”

“No?”

“No!”

“I will not kill him,” said the executioner standing up. “If he will not forgive me, I will not do anything.”

“Lord Viscount,” the bailiff took Dandelion by the elbow. “Do not make trouble. The people are gathered, waiting… Forgive him, when he begs so nicely…”

“I will not forgive him and that’s it!”

For a moment, hope surged in Geralt’s chest. Hope that he hadn’t felt since the deaths of his friends, but just as quickly, it was dashed by the bailiff.

“Master executioner,” the bailiff said turning to the executioner. “Can you behead him without his forgiveness? I’ll repay you…”

The executioner wordlessly held out his open hand, as wide as a pan. The bailiff sighed, pulled out a purse and poured some coins into the hand. The executioner looked and then clenched his fist. He rolled his eyes within his hood.

“Okay,” he agreed, he hid the money and walked back over to the condemned. “Kneel down, stubborn sir. Put your head on the block. If I want I can be stubborn and mischievous too. I can cut twice what I can do in one. Or in three.”

“I forgive you!” Dandelion promptly shouted, cornflower blue eyes widening. “I forgive you!”

“Thank you.”

“Since you have been given your pardon,” said the mournful bailiff, “return my money.”

The executioner turned on his heel and raised his ax.

“Move aside, sir,” he said in an ominously hollow voice. “You know that according to the rules that you must not interfere with the performance of the execution. When I chop the head, blood flies.”

The bailiff backed away so rapidly that he almost fell from the scaffold.

“Is this right?” Dandelion knelt and stretched his neck across the stump. “Master? Hey, Master!”

“What do you want?”

“You were kidding, right? When you said you wouldn’t behead me with the first blow? You’ll only cut once? Right?” A tremor ran through Dandelion, and Geralt was vaguely aware that he ought to do something. But what? Tell him everything was going to be alright? Shout about the crowd that the pain would only last a few moments either way?

The executioner’s eyes sparkled. “It’ll be a surprise,” he growled ominously.

The crowd suddenly parted before a rider who burst into the square on a lathered horse.

“Halt!” The rider called, waving a large roll of parchment with a red seal. “Stop the execution! On the orders of our Lady Duchess! Stop the execution! I’m here to bring clemency for the accused.”

“Not again,” growled the executioner lowering his ax sullenly. “Another pardon? This is getting boring.”

“A pardon! A reprieve!” Roared the crowd. The women in the first row started wailing even louder. The children whistled and booed with disappointment.

“Hush, people!” Shouted the bailiff and unrolled the parchment. “This is the will of Duchess Anne Henrietta! In her immense goodness and to celebrate the peace of Cintra Her Ladyship has waived charges against Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove and pardons him from execution…”

“My Dear Ermine,” Dandelion said, smiling broadly, he pushed himself up, as though expecting to be allowed to simply walk away.

“And orders that the above Viscount Julian et cetera be flogged in lieu of his execution. Thirty lashes to be delivered bare by the Master Execution.”

“I- what?” Dandelion looked as though he wanted to run, but the executioner's henchmen grabbed him.

Concern knotted Geralt’s stomach as he recalled that a gash on his head was the worst wound Dandelion had ever received, and how much he’d whined and sobbed about that. A whipping, and a public one, performed by an irritated executioner, would be beyond anything he could comprehend.

Not to mention, Geralt was more than aware of Dandelion’s fears regarding anything that made a sound like a whip. He would even flinch if a rider used a crop too near to him. The Witcher didn’t know what caused his fear, but it was one of the reasons he no longer used a crop on his horses. He couldn’t imagine what the sound of the whip-

“Geralt!” Ciri’s voice broke through his thoughts, with a tone that made him think she’d been trying to get his attention for some time. “Geralt we have to-”

“To do what?” he spat. “I can’t fight them all Ciri, they’ll whip him and then let him go.”

Ciri opened her mouth again, but he cut her off, “Follow the road north of town. There’s an inn there with a red-painted door. Get us a room, call for a bath, and find whatever herbs and medical supplies you can get your hands on.” She didn’t need to see Dandelion’s suffering, it was bad enough that she was going to see the aftermath.

“Go!” he said sternly and she turned Kelpie, hurrying the horse away.


	2. Chapter 2

On the scaffold, Dandelion no longer being treated gently. It seemed that his stunt with the apology had not gone over well and that the executioner intended to get his revenge even if he wasn’t able to cut off the troubadour’s head. They had stripped him down to his small clothes, leaving his finery in a pile near the bailiff, and bound his hands above his head with thick twine.

“Help!” Dandelion screamed, true fear showing in his voice.

Geralt dismounted and pushed through the crowd, forcing spectators out of his way, leading Roach behind him. As soon as it was over, he’d grab the poet and make a run for it. Otherwise, there was no telling what the excited crowd might do.

“Heeelp meeee!”

The poet sobbed again. Reaching the front of the crowd, Geralt shouted, “Dandelion!” Even if he couldn’t stop the ordeal - because he couldn’t fight them all, damn it - he could at least let his friend know he was there.

Dandelion jerked swiftly, clearly having heard him, and his eyes widened, his lips beginning to form the Witcher’s name- then he screamed.

It seemed that while Geralt had been fighting his way to the front of the crowd they’d picked the instrument of torture: the messenger’s riding crop. The first blow had evidently come as a shock since he’d been focused on Geralt, but almost immediately the poet thrashed in his bonds.

Jeers echoed from the crowd as Dandelion screamed again without even being struck. “Please!” he begged, the calmness from before completely gone. “Mercy!”

“The condemned will count the strikes,” said the bailiff. Evidently the executioner wasn’t the only one who was in the mood for revenge.

“Ten?” offered Dandelion, a tiny hint of a smile on his hopeful face.

“The condemned will count the strikes correctly or we will begin again,” amended the bailiff.

Dandelion glanced sideways, toward Geralt, who gave him an encouraging nod. _“One,”_ said the poet.

The second strike fell immediately after. _“Two.”_

Crack. _“Three.”_ Tears were already beginning in Dandelion’s eyes, and he once again looked sideways to Geralt who, again, could do nothing but give him a sympathetic look.

Crack. _“Four.”_

Watching Dandelion, Geralt could see that it wasn’t the pain at all that frightened him. He flinched with each strike, but the moment was a second too soon, coming from the sound of the crop rather than the strike itself.

Crack. “ _Five._ Is this truly necessary? I mean-”

Crack. “ _Six!_ Oh sweet Melitele!” As much as Dandelion was babbling, there was no way the executioner was using his full strength for the blows. If he had been, Dandelion would have been in a great deal more distress.

Crack. “ _Seven!_ Please, please my good men-”

Crack. _“Eight!_ Ah! Truly, a- a misunderstanding-”

“The condemned will count with no commentary.” Geralt debated if he’d ever wanted to rip someone’s head off with his bare hands as much as he wanted to do that to the bailiff. 

Crack. “ _Nine?_ ”

Crack. “ _Ten! Ten!”_ His face was fully soaked with tears, even as he attempted to squeeze his eyes shut.

Crack. “ _E- eleven._ ”

“You’re the Witcher he brought with him, yes?” While he’d been focused on Dandelion, the bailiff had stepped off the platform and walked up beside him.

“Yes,” Geralt growled through gritted teeth, listening as Dandelion choked out “ _Twelve!_ Fuck!”

“Good,” the bailiff replied. “You can deal with him when we’re done.”

Crack. _“Thirteen!_ Gods have mercy!”

“I intend to.” Geralt promised. Then narrowed his eyes at the bailiff, warning him not to do anything about Dandelion’s continued commentary.

Crack. _“Four- fourteen!”_ His back was entirely inflamed, but so far the skin seemed intact, not broken, only bruised.

The bailiff climbed back onto the stage without even a backward glance.

Crack. “ _Five- fiveten? Fi- Fifteen!_ ” He was losing his voice. His words were so quiet that even Geralt could barely hear them.

Crack. There was a long pause before Dandelion stuttered, _“Six- sixteen.”_ For the first time, Geralt smelled blood as the crop finally broke through Dandelion’s skin.

Geralt looped Roach’s reins over a pole attached to the stage. It would stop her from bolting - since, judging by her flickering ears, she didn’t like the noise any more than Dandelion - but it would be an easy knot to untie quickly should the need arise.

Crack. “ _Sev- seven- sevente- teen.”_

Crack. Silence. Not a word came from the poet, even as the crowd seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the count to come.

Dandelion’s sides were heaving, his feet no longer supporting him and his wrists and shoulders straining from the weight of his body. Geralt cursed himself for not having checked the ropes to ensure they wouldn’t cut off circulation.

“The condemned will count!” said the bailiff.

_“E- eight- t- teen.”_

Crack. Again, no words came from the poet.

With no preamble, the Witcher swung himself onto the stage. **“Nineteen!”** he roared, glaring at the bailiff and daring him to start over.

Dandelion seemed unaware of the added person, his head lolling back as the next strike fell. **“Twenty,”** Geralt said, clenching his hands into fists and resisting the urge to run to the poet’s side and drag him away.

Crack. **“Twenty one.”** He glanced at the ropes on Dandelion’s hands, mildly impressed to see that they had been tied in such a way that they wouldn’t prevent blood flow.

Crack. **“Twenty two.”** The Witcher found himself debating if it was illegal - or merely ill-advised - to murder the Duchess of Toussaint.

Crack. **“Twenty three.”** Up close, he could see the sweat beading on his forehead, different entirely from the tears on his cheeks. Geralt slipped a hand into his pocket to ensure he had a handkerchief. 

Crack. **“Twenty four.”** There were only six more to go, and yet he wasn’t entirely certain Dandelion would survive it.

Crack. **“Twenty five.”** Beheading a man was foul enough, if Dandelion died under the whip, Geralt was going to slaughter them all. Ciri could take care of herself.

Crack. **“Twenty six.”** Geralt was tense enough that he was afraid he was going to shatter one of his own teeth. _We’re almost there_ , he thought, wishing he could cover his ears to drown out the noise of the crowd.

Crack. **“Twenty seven.”** Drool dripped down Dandelion’s mouth, tinged red as though he’d bitten his tongue. Geralt could only hope he hadn’t bitten all the way through.

Crack. **“Twenty eight.”**

Crack. **“Twenty nine.”**

Crack. Geralt didn’t care enough to count the last strike, stepping forward, grabbing a knife from his belt, and cutting Dandelion down in one swift movement. Unable to support himself, the poet slumped into Geralt’s arms with a moan.

The crowd was still chattering excitedly, and he heard at least one person offer to take the poet home to ‘care’ for him. Although sorely tempted, Geralt didn’t turn to identify the speaker.

“Where will you be staying?” asked the bailiff calmly. “I don’t imagine you’ll be traveling terribly far.”

Geralt froze, struggling to get his arms under Dandelion’s shoulders so he could lift the poet off the stage. “If anyone tries to lay a hand on him, I’ll gut them,” he snarled.

“I merely wish to see his things returned.”

It was tempting to tell the man to fuck off, but then, Dandelion would want his lute. “Inn with a red door to the north of town.”

Then he dragged Dandelion to the edge of the stage, lowering him onto Roach before jumping behind him. He spurred her into a gallop, trusting the crowd to get out of his way.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you’re wondering why Geralt just stood by, that’s canon, and it’s because he just lost most of his friends to horrible deaths. He’s still in shock. 
> 
> The dialogue up through where Dandelion says “My dear Ermine” is taken from the book or paraphrased. Everything after that is mine. 
> 
> Dandelion’s fear of the noise from crops and whips comes from my head canon about him being an abused bastard child.


End file.
